Who we are can sometimes be encapsulated in a moment. If you’ve read this journal for any length of time, you know about the lighthearted, less dignified moments that have defined my life, but like everyone else, I have a dark side defined by darker moments too.

Human Encyclopedia tells me that I have a hard time gifting myself, and out of all the personal stories I’ve told him, he has determined my single most life-defining moment as being the day I helped my mother wrap a bicycle for Christmas.

I was about nine years old at the time, and we lived at the top of a hill at the end of Division Street. I had never before ridden a bike, and it had never before occurred to me to want one. Then one day, my mother asked me if I wanted a bicycle for Christmas.

Did I want a bike for Christmas? I wasn’t sure. I pictured a kid riding a bike for the first time with a wobbly lack of grace, and I pictured the street outside our house, which went down at an angle too steep for my comfort. Yes, I liked the idea of having a bike, but the practical, fearful child in me couldn’t picture myself riding it with any ease on that hilly street. Surely, my mother would do nothing but worry about my safety if I had a bike, and besides, bikes were so expensive, right? So I told her no.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I don’t want a bike.” My mother nodded thoughtfully, and that was that.

A few days later, she announced that she was giving Jolly, her best friend’s daughter, a bike for Christmas. She was letting me know because she was going to have it out in plain sight as she wrapped it, and she thought that I might want to help out. I said sure,… and then I saw it.

Red, pink, and white, the bike was obviously for a girl. Strawberry Shortcake decals were plastered all over it, and tassels hung prettily from the ends of the handlebars. A cute white basket decorated the front, and there was also a little bell… and training wheels. I was in awe over that bike. It was the prettiest thing I ever saw.

My mother asked if I wanted to give it a try, so I sat in the seat and pedaled across the carpet, straight, sure, and not at all wobbly. I loved the feel of the handles in my hands; I loved the height of my view as I sat upon it; I loved the feel of the pedals beneath my feet; and in that brief moment, I wanted nothing more than to have that bike.

I wondered if I was going to get one, this one, but then I remembered that it was being wrapped for Jolly, not me, and I was overcome with regret and envy. It had been offered to me, but I’d already said no out of practicality. It would seem rude to ask for a bike now. But look at it, so shiny and new. I couldn’t help thinking that it had been meant for me, that it had been bought for me, and because I said no, it was going to Jolly. Jolly.

For a brief second, I hated Jolly.

And yet, I didn’t say anything. I didn’t say, “I change my mind. I want this bike,” and even if I had, it would have been too late. I’m sure my mother had already promised her best friend that it would go to Jolly, and to Jolly it went. I didn’t want to ask for the bike after all that and risk disappointment.

Of course, I would one day, years from that moment, own a bike anyway—first a blue one with three speeds, then a pink one with ten speeds. But I would always mourn the loss of the pretty Strawberry Shortcake bike. It was the absolute, most perfect bike for me, and yet I passed up the opportunity to have it because I couldn’t say yes and allow myself to be happy. I couldn’t ask for something good for myself.

This, according to Human Encyclopedia, is the moment that defines me, and I am not much different even today. I still have a hard time gifting myself, or asking for what I want, much less grabbing it. My first inclination is to decline, to back away, or to let someone else have it, even if it’s something I want more than anything else in this world. I’ve missed out on many a great thing because of this, and I’ve regretted losing them all.

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